“Your mother’s lawyer.”

“Her lawyer.” He closed his mouth like someone shutting a door.

“And what about the house?”

“The house stays in my family.

That part isn’t up for discussion.”

The house was thirty years old and badly needed a new roof.

I had gotten three estimates back in August and never brought them up, because I was still trying to decide whether he could hear something like that without hearing his mother’s voice behind it.

“What about my father’s money?” I asked.

“The four hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars from selling the land.”

He put the cup down.

“Nobody’s fighting over that.

It’s yours.

It’s been sitting right where it’s supposed to be.”

“And where is that?”